


Too Little, Too Late

by Alethnya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethnya/pseuds/Alethnya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She always saves him. Every time. Always. The tragedy is that it took him too long to realize it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Little, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Early last year, I posted my very first attempt at Sherlolly. It didn’t turn out quite like I’d wanted it to and I was left feeling vaguely disappointed in the effort. A few weeks ago, I pulled it out, dusted it off and decided to see if I could ‘fix it’. Here is the result!
> 
> Thanks to my beta, Xaraphis. She keeps me right. ;)

 

 

He stood outside the door to the lab, eyes fixed on the lone figure within; paralyzed beneath the dragging weight of this… _inexplicable_ trepidation.

 

This was not him, this hesitance. Sherlock Holmes did not linger in doorways, casting anxious glances through windows. Sherlock Holmes owned every room he entered and dismissed the feelings – the _sentiment_ – of others as the maudlin drivel of lesser minds.

 

Sherlock Holmes, he had been reliably informed, was a complete and utter prick.

 

So…why then this truly _tedious_ reluctance?

 

He knew the answer. Didn’t much like it, but knew it all the same.

 

It was all down to her, in the end. Because she _counted._ Because she _mattered_. In ways and measures that he had only just begun to fully grasp.

 

Long ago, when he had kissed her cheek and wished her well and _meant_ it, he had thought that he understood – that he comprehended the full depth and breadth of his regard for her. The ache in his chest as he’d walked away had been easily dismissed as nothing more than a symptom of his massively bruised ego.

 

That she…that _Molly Hooper_ , of all people, had moved on...

 

He had been almost absurdly surprised, in those early days, to discover just how entirely life had gotten on with itself in his absence.

 

That incongruous little ache having been quite satisfactorily dismissed, he had found himself… _content_ with how things had worked out between them. They were friends, of a sort – far more so than they had ever been before. Certainly he had begun seeking her out with greater regularity, even when there were no cases to be solved. She became a bastion of calm, comforting, familiarity in the suddenly tip-tilted landscape of his life.

 

She, with her quiet lab and her gentle smiles and soft laughter. She, who always _saw_ , always _understood._ She, who never asked him to be anything but what he was; who knew him and liked him _because_ of his eccentricities rather than _despite_ them – one of a very select few who did.

 

Molly Hooper, with that deft efficiency that he had long admired in her, had very quickly carved out a place for herself amongst his own private pantheon.  

 

But…then had come the storm; a deluge of his own making that he had come dangerously close to drowning in.

 

The loneliness. The drugs.

 

Three stinging slaps…and so much disappointment in her eyes that it _choked_ him.

 

Then it had been the case, the case, the case and then betrayal and pain and panic and then... _her_. Again. In his head. Calming him. Centering him. Focusing him.

 

_Saving him._

 

And suddenly he had known. _Known_.

 

She saved him. She always saved him. Every time.

 

Then he’d nearly died, everything had gone to utter shit and he’d done the only thing he knew how to do – he ignored the situation entirely. There were things that needed doing; things that required his full and undivided attention. He needed to help John and Mary. He needed to heal. He needed to do a hundred other things before he could possibly turn his mind to the shattering realization that he...

 

That he...

 

So he had retreated; sealed himself away from her as best he could because he couldn’t...he didn’t...he _wouldn’t…_

 

He had clung to those words the one and only time that she had attempted to visit him in hospital. With her usual acuteness, she had taken full notice of his withdrawal almost immediately. She had left very quickly after that, hands fisted around the strap of her over-large bag and expression almost unutterably weary.

 

She’d never come round again after that – yet again giving him exactly what he wanted; what he believed that he _needed_.

 

Over the ensuing months between then and now, he had barely seen or spoken to her, save for short, stilted – and specifically case-related – conversations over corpses. On those rare occasions, she had been the very picture of professional courtesy. She answered his questions with a detached civility that felt so _wrong_ coming from her that it made his chest _ache_ all over again with the wretched certainty that he had finally, _finally_ pushed her too far.

 

Now, it was coming on Christmas, he had plans in place and the easiest thing to do – the _kindest_ thing to do – would be nothing at all. Best just to leave well enough alone, let her finally move on and relegate him to the dustbin of her life.

 

Yes, that would be the only worthy course; the obvious path for a better man.

 

But then…

 

He was not, in fact, a better man.

 

On the contrary, he was a selfish, arrogant, spoilt man and he wanted her forgiveness. Needed it, even. Especially now, in the face of what he was about to do. Somehow, without so much as a by-your-leave, Molly Hooper had become his strength – and he was going to need every ounce of it he could get over the coming days.

 

Decided as he would ever be, he allowed himself one last, deep, centering breath and then pushed through the doors into the lab beyond.

 

It was nearing half three – he had sought her out in the smallest hours of the morning, partly for the privacy but mostly because that was simply how long it had taken him to work up his nerve. He moved quietly, loath to break the silence that permeated the lab, and stuck to the edges of the room, putting as much distance as he could between them.

 

She knew he was there, of course; she always did. She lifted her head from the bit of paperwork she had been filling out, the pen stilling in her hand, her eyes unerringly finding his. Her expression, so unguarded only moments before, tightened and tensed; her shoulders going rigid beneath the stark white of her lab coat.

 

“Sherlock.” There was no greeting in her tone, only acknowledgment and it cut him anew. That she should be the cold one while he longed for the sweet, easy smile that she had once been so generous with...things had, indeed, changed.

 

He mastered himself, straightened and stepped closer. Best, he told himself firmly, to just get on with it. “While it may appear otherwise,” he said, discomfort turning the words brusque, “I’ve long been aware that I owe you an explanation, Molly Hooper.”

 

Her expression didn’t change. Not even a little bit. “Do you?”

 

“Yes, indeed,” he affirmed, lifting his chin and tucking his arms behind his back. “A rather large one, at that.”

 

Her eyes – once so expressive and now as shuttered as the rest of her – flicked between his, reading him; _seeing_ him. It was a point of personal pride to him that he did not look away, did not shrink from her appraisal – that he stood tall and just let her look. Weigh.

 

Decide. 

 

And when, several very long moments later, she lowered her eyes and resumed her work, he knew that she had done precisely that.

 

Molly Hooper, he knew, had made her choice…

 

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” she said, distantly polite...as if…as if she were addressing a stranger. “I actually have quite a bit of work to catch up on.”

 

_Indifference_. A cruel sentence – far worse, in fact, than he had feared. Anger would have cooled; tears would have dried. But indifference…

 

He moved forward, stopping only when the front of his coat brushed the edge of the work table that stood between them. “Molly,” he said, the word rough and ragged as it tripped off his tongue. “Let me explain…”

 

“As I’ve said, there really is no need.” Her eyes drifted across the page, following the swirling arc of her pen as it slid over the paper.

 

Sherlock watched her, keen eyes avid, seeking _something_ …some last, lingering trace of the fondness that she had once felt for him. Surely…surely at least _that_ much must remain…

 

“Molly... _please_ …”

 

She sighed. Lowered her head even further. “Sherlock…I really think it would be best if you just left…”

 

“No.” The word was low, bitten off and spit out. Sherlock leaned forward, palms slapping down on to the table on either side of her paperwork; a welcome swell of frustration drowning out the fears birthed by her cool detachment. _You left it too long_ , _let it go too long, and now you’ve lost her before you ever properly had her._ “No! I have something very important to say to you, Molly Hooper. I admit that things between us have been strained, of late, but you could at least _listen_ to me – you owe me that much, at least.”

 

The pen slammed down just as Molly’s head snapped up, eyes blazing as they caught his. Sherlock stood fast against her glare, nearly overwhelmed with the relief of seeing something other than distance in her gaze.

 

“I owe you?” The words came out in a hiss, dark and dangerous. Molly Hooper – gentle, sweet, kind-to-a-fault Molly Hooper – was as coldly furious as she had been the morning he had stood before her, high as a kite and stupidly defiant about it. “I owe you _nothing_ , Sherlock Holmes. _Nothing_.”

 

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, expression gone blank. This was hardly unfamiliar territory for him – most of the people he cared about had directed their entirely righteous fury at him at one point or another. But this…

 

This was _Molly_ and that somehow made it so much worse; made it cut that much deeper.

 

“I...” he stopped, shifting uncomfortably. “Forgive me…I shouldn’t have…”

 

“No,” she snapped, cutting him off as she gathered up her work, jogging the skewed pages with vicious intent, “you shouldn’t have. You _never_ should and you always _do_ and I’m…I’m _done_ , Sherlock. I’m just…done.”

 

“Don’t…” he stopped, bit the word off hard – hearing the rasp and tremor of his own desperation and _hating_ it. His jaw tightened and he looked away from her, eyes focusing instead on the blank, white wall behind her as he struggled to reclaim his famously cool composure. “I don’t know what that means.”

 

For a long moment, the lab was silent. Then, Molly sighed, a heavy, tired sound; her fleeting anger traded for something far worse – _resignation_. “No, I don’t suppose you would, would you?”

 

She was moving then; he could hear her footsteps, see the shape of her as she passed through his line of sight on her way to the door. Sherlock shifted his weight, torn between the very real desire to let her go and have done with this entire conversation…and the nearly overwhelming urge to reach for her, catch her; to drag her back and _make_ her listen.

 

In the end though, he could do neither. He could only stand there, staring at the wall…shackled by the sound of her voice as it played on a loop through his head. Grudging tolerance. He knew the sound of it only too well – had spent a lifetime hearing it, to various degrees, in the voices of strangers, friends and family alike.

 

But not from _her_. Never from Molly Hooper.

 

Until now…when it appeared to be all that she had left for him.

 

“I’d like to lock up now, Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, of course,” he said in a rush, pretending not to hear the ragged edge of his own voice. He spun around too fast, banging against the corner of the lab table and knocking a tray of clean slides sideways towards the edge. Lurching forward, he caught the tray before it could tumble to the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbled, attempting to set the tray to rights with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers and cringing at his own fumbling awkwardness. “I’m sorry…I…”

 

“It’s fine. No harm done.”

 

Flat. Polite. _Painful_.

 

Sherlock stopped, swallowed hard. Sniffing, he straightened, ran his hands down the front of his coat, arranging himself – donning what armor he had left. “Right. Yes.” He turned around, inadvertently catching her eye as he did so. “No harm done.”

 

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes was well acquainted with defeat – had been faced with it more than enough times to know precisely what it looked like. He saw it now, staring out at him from Molly Hooper’s face. And as he suspected that he had never deserved a loss more than he did this one, he decided – for once in his life – to accept it with as much grace as he could muster.

 

She had given him too much; risked far more for his sake than she logically should have. She had deserved nothing but the best of him and had received more than her share of the worst in return.

 

He owed her _everything_ , but he would give her this, at the very least. He would give her the end she so clearly wanted and he would do it as well – as graciously – as he could.

 

And so, without another word, he dropped his eyes and stepped past her; jaw clenched and shoulders squared. He stared down the long hall toward the exit, listening to her every move as she locked up behind them. The ache in his chest had returned, blooming anew at the chilling thought that this was what it would be like between them forever.

 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” She moved away then in the opposite direction – toward her office, no doubt. Away from him, at any rate.

 

He swallowed again, blinking hard as that ache grew into a full-fledged pain.  

 

“Oh,” she stopped and for a moment – for one short, stupid moment – his heart soared, “I nearly forgot. Merry Christmas, Mister Holmes.”

 

And then she was gone, taking the very last of his hope with her. She was gone. Lost to him before he’d ever even truly found her…and he had no one to blame for it but himself.

 

Not surprising really. He had always been spectacularly gifted at manufacturing his own hardships. He had spent most of his life letting down the people who were foolish enough to care about him in one way or another. It rather neatly explained why they’d all managed to get along perfectly well without him for over two years. Far better than they had _with_ him, no matter what they’d said at the time.

 

It occurred to him then, as he stood in that hallway and listened to Molly Hooper leaving him behind, that he had never been more useful to the people he cared about than when he had played the willing sacrifice and given his life for them.

 

Fitting, that. All things considered.

 

He sighed deeply; resigned. Better this way. Far better.

 

“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” he murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear him but feeling better for saying it all the same. “And goodbye.”

 

He straightened his scarf, turned up his collar, and walked toward the exit, his phone in his hand as he typed out a text to his brother. The opening salvo, as it were.

 

_Will be there for Christmas. Bringing John. Inviting Mary. Tell Mummy. ~SH_

 

 


End file.
